


Edge of the Universe

by SpectralNyx



Category: Phan, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Phan-Freeform, Phanfiction, Sexual Content, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralNyx/pseuds/SpectralNyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>The multiverse (or meta-universe) is the hypothetical set of infinite or finite possible universes (including the Universe we consistently experience) that together comprise everything that exists: the entirety of space, time, matter, and energy as well as the physical laws and constants that describe them. The various universes within the multiverse are sometimes called parallel universes or "alternate universes"</i>.</p><p>It's a sometimes discomfiting idea to be written into a work of fiction when you are real, Dan reflects, but he admits there are interesting questions raised with that idea as well. He has never considered who he might have been if circumstances in his life had worked out differently. If one small detail had changed the course of his path, would he have ever met Phil at all or become the person he is today? Who might they both be now if they did not have each other or was it possible that in any universe, like an incontrovertible law of physics, they were always destined to find one another?</p><p>During a run through the park with Phil at his side his mind begins to wander and explore the possibilities.<br/>-----------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On one of their runs through Green Park when he’s about to tell Phil to please just forget his vow to exercise before his lungs and heart burst inside his chest from overexertion he sees two children darting by on the pavement, chasing after floating bubbles one of them has waved free from the dripping bubble wand and bottle held at their side.

Perfect spheres waver in the air, fragile things with iridescent shells and it only takes a few breathless seconds before they find the irregular surface of the pavement at the children’s feet to pop back into the colorless liquid they came from. The children take no time at all to blow more bubbles into existence and soon the air is alive with floating colors. It’s a cheerful interlude, the children’s show of exuberant glee at the smallest of pleasures and Dan smiles because it’s good, these captured moments of time when the world is as wondrous as a wobbling bubble of a liquid held solid by nothing more than one small breath of expectation. Phil calls after him and he looks up, smile still on his face and Phil returns it without question. Sometimes happiness is too precious a commodity to be exchanged with speculation and interrogation, sometimes it’s just enough to return the smile a friend gives you and to bask in the easy welcoming grace of that simple gesture. But the bubbles stay with him long after they’ve both run ahead on the path and left the children far behind. He thinks idly of the sky above his head, not so gloom ridden as it might otherwise be, reminiscent always of the typical English weather invading the setting of every gothic novel with its version of Thornfield Hall lost somewhere in the thick mist of the moors. It’s blue and sedate, nothing to match the brilliant warmth of Florida or the heady burst of colorful sun and sky of the tropics, but it’s cheerful by England’s standards and it gives him a pleasant excuse to let his mind wander away from the dull ache of his bones and muscles. 

He thinks of bubbles and universes.

He can’t remember where he first heard the theory, if it was an internet search that had started out as they always do with one click on a Wikipedia page that had grown into numerous tabs with differing subjects spread out across his browser, each one more varied than the last, until he couldn’t recall what had first inspired him to read those websites in the first place. It might have been brought on after watching Donnie Darko, to try and reconcile the gravity of that film's conclusion and all it implied with looking up references which lead him down a rabbit hole of M-theory and quantum physics. It might have just been a video by Michio Kaku in which the physicist had explained the theory of multiverses, that tantalizing promise of unending realties existing side by side into the infinite, each with their own personalized set of rules and people, unable to interact with the universes next door, all of them alone and yet tightly crowded together like a crowd of bubbles in a tub, jostling each other for space and yet completely unaware of one another’s presence save perhaps for the lingering idea in the thoughts of strangers that somewhere, somehow, another version of their world, of their loved ones and themselves might exist.

What happens when the proverbial bubble pops? Does that universe wink out of existence; does something else blow another universe into being to take its place like a self-contained big bang urging other realities forth to populate the space of one that has already exhausted its moment in the fabric of existence? What happens when a universe dies and what happens to the thoughts and lives of every person who once inhabited it? If no one thinks of these things do these universes even exist at all or does it take the idle thought of a young man striving for peak fitness in the middle of Green Park to ensure the sustainability of what otherwise might not even exist at all? 

Impermanence isn’t something he’s ever given thought about. In the small hours of the night when fitful wakefulness vie with his intent to fall asleep he’ll think of things which make his mind ramble on despite his best efforts to stop them. Some nights they’re irrational fears fueled by the traditional schlock and horror of a preternatural thriller he had the bright idea of watching before going to bed. It’s the usual fare of a movie plot populated with monsters that could only exist in the pages of a screenplay and brought to life by the special effects crew offstage, but at night when the light grows thin and the silence becomes greater than the dull hush and roar of the city outside the flat it’s hard not to give the shadows a face that resembles the ancient phantasm from the movie he left in the blu-ray player in the livingroom. 

It’s silly, he knows this as he turns his face away from the hulking silhouette of clothes piled too high in the corner of a room, which in one moment of an unsuspecting glance will give them the startling sentience of a shadowed humanoid creature with a profile made of shirt sleeves and trouser legs rendered suddenly hideously familiar in a strange twist of pareidolia that he’d rather not experience. All the same, however irrational it appears, he’s altogether grateful when true sleep claims him and filtered morning light gathers his room into rational explanations. Other nights however it isn’t the horror movie or nosleep fueled thoughts that keep him awake. Sometimes his own existence presses too close for comfort on his spine and forehead and it’s all he can do not to ravel away on a tangent about who he is or why.

Who might he have been had he not got involved with youtube, had he not spoken with Phil, had Phil not proven to be the galvanizing force encouraging their friendship into successful careers? What might have happened had he remained adrift and silent, too tired and uninspired to continue speaking to the unseen audience behind a camera lens? Who might he have been had he not once enjoyed watching a soft spoken yellow bear who lived in the hundred acre wood with his friend Christopher robin? 

How many instances of time had worked to bring him where he now was, how many more instances would he encounter that would ultimately change his course? How much more different might he become? How could he affect anything in the larger scheme of the world where actions mattered more than idle thoughts and did he affect anything at all at this moment, did any of it ultimately matter? Did he?

In a universe hovering as close as a nebula away and as far as his next breath, was he even called Dan Howell, did he speak into a camera, did he live in England, did Phil call him a friend and share his confidence and living space with him? In another universe was he even alive to begin with?

In this current world, this soft collection of metaphorical soap and water he called his life, an encounter with a friend of similar interests had led them both down a path he could have hardly thought possible all those years ago alone and uncertain trying to carve a meaning for himself out of anxious thoughts and an experimental introduction of grainy footage on an old camera. He wondered sometimes if it wasn’t so much that the soap bubbles of the universe weren’t worlds distant and apart from their own but only as close as the thoughts of the people around them and how those thoughts winding out from the minds of strangers created universes far more expansive, far more hopeful or far more horrifying than the present reality he inhabited. In the minds of a million and more people the world narrowed or expanded, inhaled and gasped, caught in the pinpoint view of multitudinous opinions 

In that same manner, with inexplicable speed his own life had cycled itself through the minds of viewers who rarely took him at face value. The nature of social media, any media in fact, was that everything you said or did passed through the filter of a million perceptions, like a kaleidoscope where the patterns were hardly the same, each one colored by an individual’s experiences and prejudices. There was an old quote he’d read once, somewhere, browsing a book or a post online, he couldn't recall the source, but the words remained with him: "_I know what I have given you, I do not know what you have received_". 

It was strange and not entirely inconcievable how what others brought away from his videos most often spun out of his control. In no time at all fans wrote him into strange and comedic romances; they pulled time into their hands, twisted it into malleable shapes to give him new hours to spend the days and nights filled with adventures and fantasies more wild and imaginative than the last. His name swayed in the mouths of thousands and in their thoughts he kissed his friend, ventured to great heights, explored emotional lows, lost people, lost himself and did things he couldn’t quite explain or understand. Faced with the weight of the expectations of a world of people who didn’t know him, it was hard sometimes to remember who he was and not assume the shape of a person they imagined he was supposed to be.

When water sluiced over him in the bath every warm rivulet down his skin assured him he was real, tactile sensations were the key to awareness because no one else could feel these things, perceive it in the same way as he did. The crunch of cereal in his mouth told him this, the scalding sweetness of tea told him this, beads of rain skating down over his and Phil’s heads on a sojourn through London told him this, the welcoming conversation Phil offered when they spoke together told him this- all these things and more assured him with absolute certainty: _I am real_. 

 

Yet, he was also a work of fiction to many people and some nights the awe overwhelmed him: how is this possible?  
Other nights the idea disturbed him, gnawed at him relentlessly to think that in the glowing font of a computer screen somewhere halfway across the world someone wrote thoughts into his head that weren’t his and gave him words to say that he had never spoken and granted him the furtive kiss and lingering caress of the man currently seated at his side. In the nearness of his own reality he had already been transformed by hundreds of interpretations. That he could have achieved any kind of significance in the lives of so many strangers, significance strong enough to urge them to write about him, to take his name and his form and commit time to writing exhaustive fictions about him gave him pause. 

_Where do I begin and where do I end?_

If anyone else answered he knew they would say that he and Phil began and ended with each other like a lemniscate of personalities intertwining themselves resolutely around the other to the point that even their names became interchangeable, so that at times he was mistakenly called Phil and Phil mistakenly called Dan. 

At the barebones of it, he conceded that was all just another definition of love, but it was not the common or expected definition. It was different, wholly unique unto themselves and required no explanation or classification to make strangers understand. It was enough that they understood each other, but voices always intervened to offer their own spin of it anyway, demanding and cajoling in even breaths for a formal statement of what exactly it was because it was never enough that the shared spaces of their lives demonstrated a kind of love steeped in trust and humor and good will. It was enough to make anyone think that love was a narrow concept when, really, the emotion remained as startling and unquantifiable as dark matter. 

However, even if he tried to, how could he explain that in a contained video only a few minutes long and even then how many more questions would remain about what he really meant after he was done? He was trapped in a space where no matter how much he tried others would fill in the spaces he left behind with their own extrapolated ideas.

It was all reactionary cause and effect, curious but not completely malevolent. Sometimes the vitriol he received from anonymous naysayers with not too much to say save for epithets everyone with an internet connection and road rage had already heard before never bothered him. At the same time it was never enough to tamp it all down under willful gulps of tolerance because silence builds to a pressure point over time and he wants it to stop. He can’t please everyone, he knows this, knows that sometimes people had an axe to grind greater than they could bear and his easily accessible videos provide the perfect grindstone for their discontent. Most of it was largely impersonal, he knew that, negativity for the sake of it, because of jealousy, because of loneliness, because of ignorance- because of many things, but the comments stayed with him regardless. It was hard to ignore by and by when your social presence was stitched into the foundations of networks catering to a world of visitors and your success relied on their views and feedback- difficult then to find optimism when scathing comments sought to tear his efforts down to a one line gibe by an anonymous profile. 

He offered snippets of his life to the audience and they pulled it taut like taffy, scrutinizing it, playing with it, wanting more material than he could possibly give. That was the ultimate consequence of staying connected, of being in the eyes of millions. The internet for all its information and opportunities for connection remained largely impersonal, so that he knew, in some ways, he wasn’t strictly real, not in the same way at least that he knew a friendship with Phil or Louise or any of his closer circuit of acquaintances was real, built on foundations of trust and physical interactions that trumped the impersonal clatter and click of a keyboard and mouse. People were greater than the sum of pixels which compiled their images and words on the screen. He had realized this the first time he met Phil in person, the personality conveyed onscreen could never equal the one he had met off it. They were both known on the internet but no one knew him in the same way for example that he knew Phil or that Phil knew him and still it paled in comparison to the way they both knew themselves. This truth contented him when little else could. At the end of the day it was important to remind himself that who he really was, who Phil knew and believed him to be, could never be diminished by outside perceptions.

He understands the urge to reach for something that isn’t there, to find a spark to fill a void we never knew we had, to write fictions in our heads to compensate for gaps in the lives of others we know nothing about, to imagine ourselves at the sides of people we would like to know more. We feel entitled to knowing and wondering because whatever reality we perceive as being our own is never enough in relation to the realities of other people. That’s why the multiverse sounded so appealing, so many possibilities existing beyond our own, because most of us were so at odds with the mundane and terrifying possibilities which faced us every day.

These thoughts come to him in an instant as he runs and he knows this isn’t the enlightened point of awareness preceding runner’s high at all, not with the way the blood pounds hot and relentless in his ears and in his neck and the way anxiety does a cold dance down his spine. His chest strains to grab another cool gasp of air until he and Phil finally stop for a break on a bench. 

" _Right here and now I’m drinking this water_ ," he muses as he unscrews the cap of the bottle Phil hands him from their bag, _"right now it’s a calm spring day in London and my heart is about to evict itself from my ribcage and Phil has the nerve to not look quite so winded as I feel and…and I am here_."

In the small lull between the water cooling its way down his throat and catching his breath again the frenetic edge of his thoughts wane, but he realizes it won’t be long before he's back to the old dilemma of wondering, _yes, but what if-?_. 

His mind wanders and he tries to imagine another version of himself seated close enough to touch and wonders what might happen next in this other Dan’s life.

 

In another universe, at another time, perhaps this moment of them resting side by side on the bench under sedate sunshine is colored in with Phil reaching across to him, casual and expectant, the distance between them closed in the breadth of their mouths meeting for a kiss, feather lite and bearable. It is the displayed confidence of two people comfortable enough in circumstances that welcome a public display of their preferred affection. Phil might murmur something, a word of encouragement, something to reign in the unbearable thud and pull of his strained lungs, to cajole his blood to quiet in the words that Phil offers, but this other Dan’s heart does a double-time skip despite himself and he can’t help but be breathless all over again, because of the painful sweetness of that kiss, of an intimacy that’s full of more than words between them could say and the simple brush of Phil’s fingers across his knuckles is a firebrand that sends heat down his throat in a rush. In that universe he could stay on the bench for hours, luxuriate in their kiss for the rest of the day, because in that universe they’ve decided to define their love in terms of physical intimacy, of the gentle push and pull against each other, of taking another step along in their acquaintance that doesn’t need a second thought to happen. What they share here is gradual and gentle, but it burns them both to the quick anyway. In this universe everything is the same except for the equanimity they grant each other by virtue of one small touch. 

 

In a universe next to that one, mirrored, but not at all the same, he and Phil do not run in the park. He’s won out this argument by sheer obstinance that whatever physical condition he’s in at the moment doesn’t need to be augmented by coughing out his lungs on the pavement. They’re both content of themselves to not bother, because just as in another universe Dan wants to run, wants to try and be more fit, in another universe he could give a damn. In that same universe Phil is with him too. Some days it’s difficult to imagine himself without the support and encouragement of Phil at his side, hard to imagine them not discussing possible content for future videos, favorite Ghibli films, the vagaries of the internet or their travels throughout London. They have never found a good reason to part and have in turns rejected any excuse to dismiss the alliance they’ve made. They do not take each other for granted here. Perhaps in that universe too their physical affections take on the hotter tinge of ardor. 

It begins with a wordless exchange between them as they’re seated on the couch. Dan feels Phil’s stare before he turns to see it, an insistent gaze of blue eyes lit unnatural and electric by the glowing screen of his laptop and there's a cunning promise hidden in the unwavering way he holds Dan's gaze and Dan thinks that look is as arresting as a punch to the stomach. It's winded him entirely and he can't glance away or speak. In one second he understands the meaning behind Stendhal syndrome, here evinced not by a work of Cabanel or Klimt, but just a simple look from someone whom he holds in the highest regard.

In this universe, as in most of them, Phil isn’t by turns an aggressive person and neither for that matter is Dan, but in that moment Phil stares with a raw insistence that could be called murderous if not for the way his eyes glance down at Dan’s mouth and lingers there, casuing the tension in the room to ramp up another few degrees. There’s something about the stare preceding physical intimacy Dan finds intoxicating, not just in the silent question of consent, but in the way the stare suggests Dan is the only person alive and important in Phil’s thoughts. He takes up all space, he has been narrowed down to the critical point of immediate urgency and no one or nothing Phil ever looks at again can match the heat of that moment right now. It’s almost criminal to break it, this heady expectation, the calm before the storm. The pull of the silence between them is palpable, like a rubber band stretched past the point of endurance until it snaps and all at once it becomes too much to bear.

A simple kiss quickly turns into a fervent one, chased with gently scraping teeth and keening mouths. Small questing bites along the cool skin at Dan’s throat trail up to his earlobe, pausing to worry briefly at the small dot of the earring there, and perhaps he has the snakebites in this universe, twin piercings that sit in his lip quietly until Phil nudges them with his mouth, makes an effort to study the curious intersection of tender lip and cold metal as if he’s intent on cataloguing the variations of texture for a scientific journal. He spends so much time there, exploring the ways Dan’s mouth returns every nudging caress in kind, languid kiss for languid kiss, until they’re too mired in each other’s presence on the couch to care about recording anything else for the day. Dan’s hair musses and curls with the humid body heat of their proximity and roving hands tease his straight hair further into a ravished collection of riotous locks he’ll try to tame tomorrow. His back arches up, stomach grinding against Phil's and he feels every ripple of movement of Phil's sinuous response traveling through him as if every nerve ending in him has become the sensitive tines of a tuning fork. A hand presses at his side, a cool finger traces the indentation where his hip disappears into the waistband of his jeans, teasing under the fabric of his pants too close to where he’s grown desperately hard with the pressure of Phil’s body laid out above his. Phil’s other hand gently tugs the soft hair at the nape of his neck, fingers trailing deftly down the smooth hills of his spine covered in a t-shirt hiking itself up with their gradual contortions into the seat cushions until they’re a mess of half discarded clothing and silent cries pressed tight against each other’s cheeks as their hands find places which make their knuckles blanch white and their faces flush red. In this universe they’re a bit more physical, more in tune to each other and Dan’s legs open, knees drifting apart from one another in a small vee, so they slot together in place like pieces of a puzzle lined up perfectly in the warm curves and soft indentations of their bodies. Here they speak their adorations in the oldest of unspoken languages. Inseparable heat marks the moments of their time together and each glance they give each other sears itself into place in the marrow of their bones, a visceral feral thing that shakes their souls and robs each word, replacing it with a fevered gasp which means, "I love you." 

 

In another universe, they do not record videos for youtube. Dan is a solicitor recently graduated with his law degree and Phil is a weather forecaster for the news station in Manchester where they both work and live. They meet one day, by accident, when Dan stops for coffee at an unassuming corner café, one he normally overlooked in lieu of making a sloppy cup in the office’s coffee machine which sputters uninviting brown liquid in a manner that to him looks quite rude really. He’s tired of drinking the swill the machine emits and wants something with more substance. The inviting smell of freshly roasting coffee beans coming from the small shop is enough to convince him to step inside and have a taste. He recognizes Phil from the television as he sits complacently by the window, musing over his own cup of hot coffee. It’s difficult not to notice the tall, well groomed forecaster with a fringe just this side of messy which has earned quite a few endearing nicknames over the airwaves so that the ongoing joke is that Phil’s hair is a separate entity with a life independent of its owner. It’s all taken in good humor and Phil’s amiable character is one that translates well on the screen. Dan only pauses for a moment to wonder if that agreeable personality will carry over to when he’s not behind the public eye of the camera, but decides a quick greeting can’t hurt. Here, in this universe, he is comfortable with himself, confident enough to walk up and start a conversation which he won’t later regret as he once did in secondary when every word lodged in his throat like a mess of thick marmite, glutinous and unpleasant. The years however had given him opportunities in which he found his voice, learned how to walk without a weight on his mind and gradually his earlier anxieties had withered away, giving form to the well-spoken solicitor he now was.

In another universe, not too far removed from this one, it will not be easy to shake off anxiety with the ease of water rolling over impermeable feathers. Not everything in the grand cosmos is convenient, sometimes his fears will stay with him and it will take more than just sheer willpower to keep them at bay, but in that universe too he will find the assistance he needs to help him through. He never likes to imagine that circumstances could be so dire as to not provide help for those that need it, but life is a chaotic jumble of events which defy explanation and its horrors do not always have comfortable resolutions or explanations, but he trusts to hope and hopes that itself can be enough to guide him. 

Here, in this universe where he’s had the interest enough to pursue his law degree to its conclusion, he has grown into his own and it is enough for him to walk over to Phil Lester and say, hello, it’s a pleasant surprise to meet you like this, good job on doing that weather thing, but not too good with missing how bad that cold front was which swept up too suddenly from the West leaving him and half of England muttering into the upturned collars of their jackets that winter had come too soon. Easy laughter follows this domestic introduction and they start talking in the pleasant way strangers who have found good company often do and one coffee turns into three and soon Dan is late for work, but they exchange numbers and their acquaintance begins in fits and starts of meeting again for coffee, of exchanging anecdotes over the phone and one day, in the yawning future, they begin to talk about a night time talk show, a collaborative effort to give light to the events of their day and the lives of others they have met. They’re not quite sure where it will go, but they both hold their own in humor and Dan knows the legal loopholes to jump to make this work and Phil has connections in BBC and it’s enough of good common circumstances to pave the way until they’re both sat in front of the camera welcoming guests with surprising regularity. Ratings jump and critics adore them in papers, magazines and online forums alike. Dan will look back and think how funny it all is, that it all started with a chance encounter in a small café on the corner. They are good friends in this universe and their affections need nothing more than a nod and a laugh to confirm their regard for the other. A partnership for the ages, voices acclaim, an enviable dynamic like Fry and Laurie, Penn and Teller, Carey and Daniels, except that in this universe none of those duos exist.

 

In another universe, unrecognizable in terrain and language to anything called earth, they have different names and follow different paths. They are travelers in mist shrouded thickets where great beasts wander dreamlike over mountains whose peaks are lost in wreaths of clouds. In this world Dan is a wandering Musico who translates old songs of great adventurers into the lilting chords of an instrument, this universe’s bastardized version of a cross between a piano and a lute, which he carries across his back. Anyone else from another universe looking in might call it an omnichord; its shape looks somewhat similar even if its sound is of the more resonant insistent quality of a classical grand. The keys are upraised plates of smooth glittering crystal with carved intaglios filled with gold spelling out the names of deities native to this land. Dan, here in this universe given the name Ta’nil, skin sun-kissed with years spent traveling under the open sky, plays with such exalting practiced fervor his name carries weight in thirteen different lands. He doesn’t sing, he doesn’t need to, the instrument he masters hits the notes which make the heart skip fast and loud and makes tears sting the corners of the eyes just as artfully as any bard with their ballads. Music is the best coin to travel by in this universe, prized as music is by ears which welcome any Musico who can ply his trade with skill. Ta’nil is rumored to be able to enchant any king or frothing thief to calm or exuberant joy. He is called upon in the taverns when his steps find themselves winding into a town, the villagers he meets in the high jungles of the southern islands welcome his songs and at night the wary creatures of the shadows shy away from his campfire and music, thrilled with fear at strange and wonderful sounds echoing out to fill the too quiet spaces of the nocturnal sky.

Phil, here in this universe given the name Vilpas, meets Ta’nil one day while traveling down the sun dappled path of the Illentin wood. They toss each other the casual greeting common throughout Sinand, the land they both call home, conquered eons ago by the Farvenstil, ancient warrior kings whose language and customs they had all in time come to call their own. In the wake of the old monarchs’ conquests whispers of lost heritage and treasure beckoned every so often in the jutting ruin of a statue’s outstretched hand erupting from the earth, its limbs covered in golden moss and trailing creepers of ivy. Treasure troves lurked at the bottom of blue deep lakes, ancient stones filled with script no one could read lined cavernous pits on mountain sides; all beckoning a legacy of untold histories buried beneath their feet. Vilpas has rode for weeks on the back of a chestnut horse laden with pack bags and two elegant, perfectly weighted swords, barely stopping for rest save for when he or his horse need water or food to fuel their haste. He is bid on by a desire to find the whispers of an old legacy located in the eastern red groves, a forbidding beautiful place which lays steeped in snowdrifts of a monochromatic terrain broken only by the strange twisting red trees that burst from the ice covered land like arteries of blood frozen in place by the chill of the air. Vilpas carries a dog-eared scrap of cloth in his pocket, a small faded map much abused by time and wear on which is writ the promise of treasure and wisdom only accessible on the fifteenth eve of the Goddess moon. It isn’t long now before the moon turns full and amaranth in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess moon which will only last for two nights before receding from view for another century. He needs to hurry if he means to make it in time to witness whatever mysteries the red groves offer. The place he means to travel to is not Sinand with its temperate climes and predictable denizens whose customs are mostly peaceable unless a brigand attacks or a brawl in a tavern spills out into the lanes or when malice for malice’s sake becomes the prevailing argument between crowds. The eastern red groves lay in obscurity, barely touched by exploration let alone a name to give it distinction. Despite the dangers of crossing over into uncharted territory, Vilpas wanted to know what marvels waited to be uncovered there.

Ta’nil offers him rest at his campsite and both begin to converse. Once more, here, as in perhaps all universes, the conversation is easy, shared as it is by good company. Both young men wanted to see more of the world- Ta’nil not content enough to merely play the songs detailing the exploits of others; Vilpas too isolated in a quest where good company was only bought with coin which did not always guarantee benevolent allegiance. They strike a deal that day, a promise spoken between the chords of music Ta’nil contentedly plays for Vilpas’s enjoyment and the soft honeyed bread Vilpas offers him in gratitude, that they should travel together, committed as they both are to the cause of exploration, a commitment which would shortly thereafter coalesce into a friendship too fierce and unyielding to be defined by such a simple word. 

Vilpas, the more accomplished fighter whose father had taught him the delicate art of swordplay would teach Ta’nil to spar and hold his own in a duel, something which would come into useful practice when they were ambushed one night by the hulking mass of a liguaro. 

It creeps upon them in the cunning manner of all liguaro, crouching low and silent in the underbrush, its lithe form blending in with the darkness at the borders where the firelight could not reach. It is undeterred by the chords of music Ta’nil plays, its colubrine tail twisting in anticipation of the fresh meat which sat not a few yards away. It happens faster than either of them can later recall with true clarity. Ta’nil only catches a glimpse of two great flashing white eyes and hears the coughing grate of its roar before it barrels into Vilpas’s back knocking him breathless to the ground. His sword clatters to the side of the fire causing hot embers to skitter across the stones at their feet. Vilpas twists around frantically; loathe to die with his face turned away from his aggressor. He struggles to push the liguaro away, but its muscular weight is a burdensome thing and its initial attack has already knocked the breath from his lungs. The last scrap of his strength expends itself trying to keep the great straining claws away from his face and neck. The liguaro’s leonine maw filled with curving teeth snaps inches away from Vilpas’s shoulder and it is this deadly snapping click of spittle drenched fangs which startles Ta’nil from his horrified stupor. He moves to snatch up Vilpas’s neglected sword and without thinking knocks the beast away with a clumsy foreceful swing of the blade’s flat edge directly into its squat whiskered muzzle. It rears up, eyes flashing, spitting fury and he snarls back his own invectives, his unpracticed hands winding themselves with more care around the grip as man and beast hurtle themselves towards one another with venomous intent, one infuriated at its thwarted attempt to take down its prey the other infuriated that they had been caught so off guard, that Vilpas had been attacked at all.

Ta’nil kills it as they collide together, plunging the sword up to the hilt in a chest full of matted clots of fur and gore despite a searing wet sensation which travels down his arm like liquid fire. Later Vilpas is quiet as he cleans and mends the wounds on Ta’nil’s arm where the liguaro has left its signature with one of its sickle shaped claws, a winding jagged scratch down to his elbow which will heal over into a white scar Ta’nil will wear to his death. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper. It was reckless what you did,” Vilpas finally says as he winds the last scrap of cloth around Ta’nil’s arm, securing it with bits of honey paste which will hold fast as they travel. 

“You would have died,” Ta’nil answers and it’s a very simple explanation but it speaks volumes more than both are willing to elaborate. 

So it was that in this universe their acquaintance is sealed with blood and the promise of fraught perils and sweet music. They do not stray from one another and it is hard to say if they survive the test which awaits them in the end, in the deepest reaches of the red groves where the only sounds to be heard there are the high arced whistles of the wind over snow frosted stones. Some stories do not have clear endings, but here at least, once more, they have each other and this too is enough.

 

In another universe Dan is a vampire who has lived for two centuries and finds a steadfast friend in a young mortal named Philip when both are at a point in their lives when true company has grown thin. The details in this universe are sparse, but it ends with Dan pressing Phil against the rough bark of an oak in the Forest of Dean and asking him if he wants this, really wants this because eternity is a long time in which to regret immortality. They’re chest to chest, noses brushing so close they inhale each other’s breath, their lips just a murmur’s length away and as always Phil’s eyes are a brilliant blue green hue that envelops Dan to the very core. It’s not just the color but the intent behind that gaze, good natured and welcoming; an effective if unexpected salve against whatever callous menace lurks in Dan’s heart when he feels at his most cynical or frustrated. Phil has a gentle smile in this universe as well and Dan can’t stand it sometimes. He’s two centuries old, still a whelp by vampiric standards, yet he’s filled with world weary consternation to be faced with such endearing unfettered affection. 

How can anyone who has a penchant for houseplants and a welcoming disposition ever truly be a creature of the night? It’s the age old question among their kind and vampires more ancient than he haven’t been able to answer it. _Perhaps none of it matters, perhaps it’s just the quality of the company you keep_ , he thinks as he nuzzles against Phil’s throat and inhales the strange sweet aroma of soap clinging to pale skin. 

_Perhaps it’s that none of us are really ready to be alone, we’re not ready to spend time with people who make us feel alone despite their company. We yearn for proper companionship. We navigate the unknown better when someone else is at our side, someone who wants us as badly as we want them, no matter the risk._

There was a singular power in two’s, he knew this, an old magus with dirty blond hair, a grizzled face and twisted grin had told him this one night as they both lingered under the shadow of the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain overlooked by the outstretched wings of Eros, its form rendered into a daunting seraph of menace by the long darkness of the evening.

“If you find a good thing you keep it, never let it go,” the magus tells him as he reaches into the pocket of the battered trenchcoat he wears and pulls out a cigarette. He lights the end with a quick spark of flame, but Dan never sees a lighter in his hand. “Not a lot of people have the wherewithal to stay by our side, not with our dispositions or careers. The danger never disappears. It’s a hard lot to swallow for some people. Found that out with Kit, didn’t I,” the last words are a mutter not meant for Dan to hear so he ignores it. 

“Thing is, no matter what’s at stake or not, it’s never easy, innit?”

Dan shakes his head, no it never is. 

“But if he’s been with you this far down the road chances are you’ll be alright in the end. You both go down in flames together or you don’t go down at all. That’s how it is to play our game if you want to be in it, especially if you’ve got a longer road to walk than I do.”

“Just how old are you,” Dan turns to the magus to ask, but just as he says it he realizes this man isn’t known as a conman and a liar for nothing. The magus grins wide and the gesture is at once amiable and dangerous, the grin of a man who has seen more things and known worse than Dan will ever possibly encounter in his long years.

“In one universe I’m pushing sixty,” the magus says, “in another I’m still a kid about to lock his childhood innocence away in a box and in another-well who the bloody hell knows really. I’m still figuring it out as I go along. Looks like you are too.”  
The lit cherry end of the cigarette flashes bright at the corner of the magus’s mouth, smoke stewing out with every breath and the smell grounds Dan, gives him the spiced confidence to do what he’s wanted to do since he first met Phil in the underground, both of them pulled together by forces he’s never been able to explain. He wonders later whether the magus’s brand of tobacco is itself a kind of magic or if it’s just that the magus is a good talker. He thinks perhaps it might be a bit of both, perhaps there’s no magic involved at all, but with this man it’s always hard to tell. 

“You're alright for one of _them_. I'd invite you over to a tavern I know, to talk a little more, but I don't knock back the kind of drinks you're used to and anyway I have to go. Couple of schoolboy idiots in Sutton decided to try out a few rituals after hours and found playing demon roulette wasn’t such a smart wager after all. Now they need me to save their immortal souls. What a mess... I always say it, but no one ever listens. Magic is a nasty game, they’re better off playing with dad’s chainsaw instead.” The cigarette falls to the pavement with a scatter of ash before being grounded out under foot. “See you around, Daniel.”

With this cryptic farewell the magus leaves swiftly, disappearing into London’s bustling nocturnal crowds before Dan really has time to think, until all that is left of the other man’s presence is the lingering scent of tobacco smoke and the underlying subtle aroma of sandalwood and sulphur.

Back in the Forest of Dean, Dan’s thoughts catch up to him as he mouths the pulsing artery runnng thick with blood just below the skin of Phil’s neck. The pulse thuds in a steady tympana to match Phil’s beating heart and as Dan opens his mouth to gently tongue the upraised prickles of skin, Phil’s heart speeds to a canter Dan can feel with one hand he's slipped under the front of Phil's shirt. The straining muscles under his fingers react to Dan's touch, arching up instead of away and Dan presses himself into Phil as if he means to merge with him bodily. It would be a too easy thing to break the bones straining under him. Even for a vampire as young as he is, Dan can still crush a mortal like glass, but he is careful with every ministration, applying gentle pressure Phil could break away from at any time if he so chooses. He knows what he looks like, wild and untrammeled, ravenous with terrible hunger and love. He wonders if his eyes have bled to black yet, he thinks they must have by now. On any other mortal Dan might have marked for prey the prickled odor of fear would be all consuming at this point, but the scent hovering around Phil is reminiscent of anticipation, of trust, not fear and this is enough for Dan to open his mouth wider and let his fangs rest gently against the skin of the neck, not yet ready to take the plunge.

Phil presses a hand to the back of his head with equal gentle force, running fingers through his hair in reassurance and Dan shudders. 

“I’m with you. Whatever happens, I’m here,” Phil says, dark hair tumbling past heavy lidded eyes and Dan suppresses a moan before his fangs pierce the skin and warm blood fills his mouth to the brim. 

They interlock arms around each other’s waists, holding the other in place as they begin a night long transformation which will yield them both an eternity of nights to come. In this universe too, their union is sealed in blood, with kisses tinged with fangs and stares in which they can see no one else but each other. They are two mythical creatures conjoined forever under a sky bristling with strange constellations and in this universe too, it is enough.

 

In another universe neither of them inhabit bodies strictly recognizable as human. Dan is a fiery collection of stardust and nebula stretching out in a twisting galaxy like a helix; Phil is the force which keeps him together, keeps him from expanding into combustible destruction, from breaking apart in a blast of energy which would make this universe tremble. They revel in their combined forces, twisting away into the infinite star dotted reaches, wound tightly around one another, both wholly aware of the other’s presence although if there were other eyes to see them in this universe they would remain unseen, explained only by forces of physics and string theories too complex for any scientific mind to unravel. It would take the collapse of this entire universe to break them apart and even then they understand without minds or hearts to know that they would always inevitably find each other. That is the law of this universe and this too is enough.

 

In another universe, far removed from those that have come before it, they exist but never meet and in another universe very near to that one, neither of them exists at all and in both worlds the tale grows too dark to know.

It is possible for two bodies to orbit apart and away from the other, to exist on an independent axis and carve out separate destinies for themselves, but the universe consistently pulls forces together, demonstrates that there is an exquisite success in finding healthy equilibrium with something or someone who uplifts and supports and provides moments of laughter without let or obligation. 

It is rare.

 _This is rare_ , Dan think as he emerges back into himself, winded and resting on a bench in Green Park, seated next to Phil who is looking at a crowd of pigeons, wholly oblivious to how Dan looks at him thoughtfully.

They have a come a long way and he thinks, he hopes, they both have longer to go yet. He won’t lie to himself and say he’s completely bereft of regret, but he can’t say he would change anything of the course of their lives if given the chance. What limited control he has over their internet presence isn’t as important as what they have right now in this moment. He can’t ever steer the opinions other people have of him, he can’t stem the creative flow of authors or artists who create odd happenstances they’ve never shared in real life. All things considered it would be easier to control the tides. He can stave off negativity when it targets them the best they’re able to, knowing all the while that when the cameras turn off, the studio grows dark and the laptops are shut for the night they will still be here, two friends securely moored in the confidence they have in each other.

Universes whisper somewhere in the distance, but he decides this time not to try and listen. There’s a danger in daydreaming and letting his thoughts drown him where he sits. He knows who he is, where he is, even if he’s not ultimately sure what that means in the end or where he will go from here. Phil turns his head and catches Dan staring, causing a small smile to perk his mouth. 

“What?”

“Nothing," Dan tilts his head and rests his arms on the back of the bench, "You’re pretty rare, did you know?”

“What, like a shiny Pokémon you mean?”

Dan gives an exasperated hundred yard stare which makes Phil’s smile widen. “Yes, Phil, exactly like a shiny Pokémon. A shiny mudkip.”

Phil laughs, “come on, really, what do you mean?”

“Nothing, it’s fine. Just over thinking things again.”

Phil gives him a look of equal good-natured exasperation before asking if he needs another minute to rest.

“Yeah, let’s finish this gauntlet and then get ice cream later so we can utterly defeat the purpose of running here today.”

“Ice cream doesn’t sound bad,” Phil says as he looks up into the blue sky where clouds are beginning to settle, as if Mother Nature had given England too good of a reprieve with clement weather and had decided to reset back to the usual overcast conditions. At least it didn’t look like rain.

Dan takes another moment to look at Phil, to really appreciate the person sitting next to him, to appreciate who they both have become, who he, Dan, has become with this extraordinary friend at his side.

“In any other time or circumstance I think I would always choose you,” he murmurs and doesn’t care that Phil hears him.

“Is this about Pokémon again?”

“No,” Dan shakes his head smiling.

“I’m confused.”

“So am I,” Dan stands up and stretches his arms high above his head. “Alright, let’s go another lap then and hopefully I won’t feel the need to collapse in the middle of the walk this time.”

“We’ll take it slow,” Phil says and Dan is back to wondering how apt that statement is.

They start off at a comfortable gait down the tree lined paths, past the indifferent gaze of strangers caught up in their own contained universes of crises and happiness. London, the city within a city, seated in a country within a country, on a sea situated on an earth floating in orbit in this part of the galaxy they all call home, drifts along its way on an expansive starscape where, somewhere, on the unseen horizon, at the edge of the universe, a shimmering transparent wall of iridescent liquid like a soap bubble walls itself off from the next universe brushing up against it. Within it, perhaps within them all, two young men call each other friends and link their names together until they become as essential and inseparable as the sun and the moon. It will be up to them how they define who they are in relation to themselves and to one another, but in the end their greatest comfort is the idea that it will be alright, they will be alright and this too they know, in any universe, is enough.


	2. An Addendum of Gratitude

The reception I've received for this fic has been humbling and overwhelming. I was unsure for the longest time to even submit this as it's the first time I've ever written a fic involving two very real people whom I have nothing but the greatest respect and gratitude for. It was concieved as a kind of meta/homage to Dan and Phil's longstanding friendship, their careers and trust in one another-focusing on this amazing dynamic which consistently amazes and inspires me and all the ways their lives and relationship might hypothetically flourish under alternate circumstances while always having the benefit and trust of one another's presence. As an aspiring author the comments encouraging my writing, to the point of wanting to read more of my work, have been uplifting in more ways than I can express here...

Thank you so much for taking the time to read 'Edge of the Universe' and for enjoying it as much as you have. Speaking on the heels of Dan's Nicer Internet campaign I can say those comments have not only given me a great deal of inspiration to continue with what I love most to do, but have come at a time when I needed encouragement the most.

Again, thank you so much.


End file.
